


Make the Man

by Senket



Series: The Clothes Make The Man [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy goes to the Opera, forces the younglings to come along- and their assistants, by extension. Sherlock in a tuxedo is a might problematic for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Man

If he’d thought it was bad before, he knew it to be so much worse now.

The white vest, a long, low-cut thing with only three buttons, made the line of Sherlock’s torso longer, his waist somehow narrower. The thinned top brought attention to his square shoulders, the pull of pale silk across his back. His pants were tailored more closely than usual, tapering down his long legs. He looked smart, beyond smart, dizzyingly gorgeous. That was before he’d slid on the dark jacket.

John turned on his heel, wincing to notice his fingers shaking, trying and failing to knot his bowtie.

Sherlock scoffed, stepping up close. He pulled away John’s hands, tutting as he fixed the accessory himself. John sucked in a startled breath, shock running up his spine. The action drew in Sherlock’s unique smell: chemicals, sweat a little like toxins and John’s own shampoo, all darkened by a touch of the cologne his mother no doubt required of him, bergamot and musk.

The man felt his eyes flutter shut, nerves hypersensitive to every movement, every gust of breath against his temple. He shivered when Sherlock’s long flingers slid against his neck to fix his collar, sighed long and warm when hands ran down his front to smooth down his jacket.

He looked again when Sherlock’s heat vanished just as abruptly, tracking the man (or rather his arse, hardly hidden behind his coattails) as he gathered miscellaneous items- his gloves, a long elegant over-coat John had never seen before, a pristine white scarf and, of course, his Smartphone- and moved to leave, pushing the door open.

Sherlock, having noted the lack of footsteps not his own, turned to arch an eyebrow at John, cocking his head towards the stairwell.

John gave a start, gathering his own things quickly, flushed. He knew there were signs that Sherlock could read, how was the man still so oblivious? Wouldn’t know if someone fancied him until they’d already mounted him and had their tongue half-way down his throat, no doubt, he thought.

‘Not a bad idea,’ a part of him added reflexively, and he stifled a long, low groan with a cough and a nervous smile as he glanced sideways at Sherlock.

He managed to mostly regain himself, at least enough to make a smart-mouthed remark as he passed the man to descend the stairs. “I feel as though you’re only lacking a top hat, Sherlock.”

“My dear blogger,” his flatmate answered shortly, a cheeky little smile at the corner of his mouth, “I do believe we’re playing dress-up plenty enough for the day.”

He still didn’t know why, exactly, he’d been dragged along to the Holmes Family Outing. ‘Anthea’ seemed to be sharing the same dubious pleasure, already sitting in the back of the private box when they had arrived, expression antsy. Her blackberry seemed to have vanished. She looked more the same as always, though he didn’t doubt the price tag for that sleek burgundy dress was even higher than usual. She was, however, somehow dwarfed by the Holmes matriarch. The lady wore an emerald gown, Queen Anne neckline low to give plenty of room for the lavish emerald and diamond necklace glittering at her throat. Her long hair had been gathered high on her head in a loose nest of sleek curls. She looked far too young to have a son in his forties, ineffably elegant. John would’ve felt bad for the poor man she had ensnarled if he hadn’t known how it felt; Sherlock was far more like his mother then he might’ve believed, if he’d never met the woman- except, of course, for his total lack of decorum.

Sherlock ushered him to the last seat in the second row, where he picked up the programme for something called Das Rheingold and buried his nose in it, eager to avoid eye contact with anyone at least until the opera started.

\---------------

Sherlock glanced over, sighing an audible puff of breath when he noticed the glazed expression in John’s eyes. Leaning over, he stretched him arm along the back of John’s chair for balance, lips almost pressed against the shell of the doctor’s ear as he spoke.

John had been expecting some sort of synopsis for the excruciatingly long opera- only the first of _four_ , from what he’d already been told, and they’d been at it two hours now (not including the intermission) with little sign of stopping. He had personally lost track of the plot in, oh, the first ten minutes. Synopsis was not what he got, however.

“John Watson,” Sherlock said, voice pitched in a low whisper, more air than sound, raising a prickle of goose pimples across his neck. “That look is all wrong for you.” Sherlock’s fingers pushed lightly against his arm, thumb rubbing across his shoulder, slipping under the line of his vest. “Look at you,” he breathed, shifting closer. “Face lax, pupils blown, struck stupid,” (he felt as though he should probably have felt insulted but he was past that with Sherlock, and it was _different_ this time, because he wasn’t calling him an idiot so much as-) “and yet bored out of your _mind_.” Fingernails tracked down the nape of his neck, just hard enough to extract a shiver. “Completely wrong.”

John nearly moaned aloud when the man pulled back in one move, knuckles white as he gripped the velvet armrests. He shakily checked the program- forty minutes to go. That complete _bastard._

A hellishly long three-quarters of an hour later found the majority of the group standing in their newly-lit box, Madame Holmes unimpressed as she gave her youngest son a long, discourteous stare. He grinned cheekily at her, apparently unabashed. The exchange made John flush all across his shoulders, up his neck and across the bridge of his nose.

“Well.” Her eyes lingered over the detective for a moment before she turned, glancing at ‘Anthea’ and Mycroft as they stood by the entrance, clearly waiting for her to pass through first. “I must go congratulate Miss Adler on another wonderful performance. I expect everyone to be ready to leave _before_ the car arrives.” With a last glance at the younger men, she strode past the second couple to the passage outside. “Come along, Amanda.”

Anthea- Amanda?- cast a fleeting look at them, an amused glitter in her eyes, before slipping out. Mycroft followed stiffly. He heard Sherlock clear his throat, the man fighting an odd smile as he straightened his jacket. John finally deigned to stand up then; it took a few more tries than he had hoped, dizzy from his rapid pulse, legs like jelly. 

He breathed through his mouth, great puffs of sucked air, trying to regain his footing. Sherlock didn’t give him much time for it.

Before he knew absolutely what had happened, John found himself pressed against the edge of the balcony, body in full contact with Sherlock Holmes. The man’s long hands were _everywhere_ , kisses hard, fast and almost frantic against his mouth, and oh, god, Sherlock was _rubbing_ against him like a great cat. John felt irritatingly reactionary and, before he could even get a proper handle on what was happening, Sherlock was off him again, lingering only long enough to straighten John’s bowtie.

“That’s much better,” Sherlock said with a purr, and was John just imagining the breathless quality to his husky voice? “Perhaps we ought to attend formal events more often.” The man flashed a smile and strode out, looking not at all the worse for wear. John leaned against the balustrade for several more long, shaky moments before he could manage to leave after him.

He wasn’t the last there, thankfully, Sherlock and Mycroft baiting each other while they waited for the women to reappear. He barely managed to feel presentable before Cynthia arrived, breezing straight past them and into a sleek black car, not at all unlike Mycroft’s typical transports, if all of Mycroft’s transports were made to fit a party of eight. She sat on one end, the others clustered in two groups at the other.

“La Gavroche,” she informed the driver without tearing her eyes from her youngest. A moment of silence hung heavy over them- or perhaps just over John. Despite the severity of her (sharkishly calm) expression, only he seemed bothered. Mycroft and Anthea-or-Amanda-or-something watched with something akin to bored disinterest while Sherlock smiled, obviously pleased with himself.

“In the future, I entreat you to keep your private moments _private._ ”

“Of course, Mummy.” At least no one made the mistake of thinking he even considered it for a moment.

Dinner with Sherlock in a tuxedo and with his fingers stroking John’s leg under the table didn’t make things _any_ easier.


End file.
